Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 May 1887 — Rude but Genuine Hospitality. [ARTICLE]

Rude but Genuine Hospitality.

“These mountaineers are the most hospitable people on earth. It is a rude but genuine hospitality. They would share their last loaf with a stranger within their gates. The latch string hangs out for all. ” We were riding down a steep Bocky Mountain trail, my friend Clate and i, when Clate made the remark quoted. He was an enthusiast over the noble traits of the honest miner and mountaineer. Certain experiences of my own had made me skeptical on the subject. At the base of the mountain stood a little log cabin. “Now,” said Clate, “I’ll prove my theory. It’s past dinner time and we’re both hungry as wolves. I’ll wager anything yon like that we’ll get a good square meal at that cabin free of charge.” Five minutes later we stood before the closed door of the cabin. “Hello!” roared Clate. There was no reply. “Hello, I say!” This time Clate rapped loudly on the door. There being no response he lilted the latch, when the door swung open, showing no one within, although the cabin was e vidently being occup ed. “All right!” cried Clate, cheerily. “Come on in, Ned, and we’ll forage ’round and see what we can find in the commissary. The folks won’t care. They’ve left the door open on purpose for wayfarers like us lo step in and help themselves. It’s just like them. It’s your Westerner who knows what true hospitality is.” Clate “foraged around” for some time, but all he could find was a p eee of drv salt pork and a few potatoes. “We’ll help ourselves to what there is,” said Clate, cheerily. “You build a lire, Ned. We’re welcome to what we’ve found, I’ll bet on that, for ” He stopped. A tall, lank, grim-vis-aged woman, with a leathern looking face, suddenly appeared at a back door. She saw Clate, and yelled out: “Drop them taters:” “Why, madam, I—l ” “You drop them taters!” “We are strangers, you see, madam, and ”

“Drop ’em!” A shotgun hung on the wall. She snatched it down, brought it to her shoulder with a jerk, and said: “Drop them taterstoo quick.” Clate dropped them. “Drop that pork!” Clate dropped it. “Now, you fellers git!” I had already got, but Clate, abashed and rebuked though he was, lingered until the shotgun was again pointed toward him, and the woman said: “Clear yourself! I’ll learn you how to walk into a body’s house and help yourself to one’s vittles. That bacou and them taters ain’t to be bought for love nor money, let alone et up by you uns fer nothin’. Now, you light out!” We “lit out,” hungry and crestfallen, and Clate has been dumb ever since on the subject of Western hospitality.— Zenas Dane, in Detroit Free Press. Old Mrs. Bentley—John, I hain’t seen nothin’ of Silas Wilson lately. What’s become of him? Old Mr. Bentley—l dunno. The last time I heerd of him he was running round after an ’ism. Old Mrs. Bentley—Wha! one o* them women with short hair?— Judge. Del-Go-Shar is the fanoiful name for a new suburb of Los Angela, Cal. i